


no mistakes in tango

by sleepinnude



Category: Supernatural
Genre: For no reason, M/M, Tango, dance, this was supposed to be them slowdancing and then it became them tangoing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:49:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24903358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepinnude/pseuds/sleepinnude
Summary: Their thighs are set close in the move and Dean can feel the locked, coiled strength in Benny. He’s firm and a literal killing machine and yet here he is, dancing with Dean in the kitchen of the home they’ve made. And hell, Dean has a body count under his belt too and here he is, going to mush because he’s dancing with Benny in the kitchen of the home they’ve made.
Relationships: Benny Lafitte/Dean Winchester
Comments: 14
Kudos: 67





	no mistakes in tango

**Author's Note:**

> as dean notes, the song they dance to is the tango song from _true lies_. it's also the tango song from _scent of a woman_ , which is where i got the title of this fic from

It’s Patience who finds the record player, tucked away on a shelf in some huge secondhand warehouse store. (Jodi and the girls were just looking for something to do on a rainy summer morning, but then they found a haunted dentist’s cabinet from 1910 and ended up calling Dean in for some help. Like dentists need any help being the worst). She hefts the thing up as Dean is getting ready to leave and grins. Alex and Donna snicker behind their hands and say it’s the perfect gift ‘cause Dean is such an old man who favors obsolete music media.

Dean scowls and grumbles a defense of his tapes but does take the thing because, well, Benny is actually an old man who enjoys obsolete music. Before he heads out, he asks Claire and Kaia about the best place to find some vinyl and they both give him blank looks. “Who the hell buys _records_?” Claire asks, looking exactly like she did when she told him she had never seen _Caddyshack_. Kaia shuffles a chunk of fluffy hair behind her ear and adds, “You could try around the campus, though?”

And there is a record store nearby to USD that’s cramped and achingly hipster but with a pretty decent collection. Dean goes farflung: picks through a bunch of classical recordings, some Zeppelin, of course, some Bowie. The collection of famous tango songs is honestly a joke. Or, not a joke, because it’s not funny or referential or anything. But it makes him laugh and he adds it to the stack and it rides in the backseat back home with all the other discs.

Benny loves the record player. Benny’s taste is as broad as his shoulders: sometimes it’s a Grieg opus he lilts his head to, sometimes it’s a fucking pressing that someone made of a Britney Spears album, sometimes it’s 2Pac. And sometimes it is, in fact, that tango collection, which becomes a background staple for them, easy static to live their lives over. It’s on as they cook dinner together, it’s on as they sit out on the back porch, it’s on as Dean talks to Sam over the phone, it’s on when Benny works late and all Dean can do is sit up on the couch with a careful few fingers of whiskey, waiting up for him because somewhere along the lines of all of this, he discovered he doesn’t sleep half as well if Benny isn’t in bed with him.

They usually sway along to the music a little, not outright dancing, just bobbing and dipping their shoulders. Benny will sometimes toss a twirl in as he moves from the stove to the refrigerator and that makes Dean smile and laugh. And also think, because that leap was awful graceful and agile, and can Benny dance?

It turns out, yes. Yes, he absolutely can dance.

The first night he found out, they were sitting on the back porch, the music drifting through the open window. It was past sunset, crickets and other insects singing and Dean was mostly asleep against Benny’s shoulder. The record flipped from the second track into the third and Benny stood. Dean whined at being disturbed but then he lifted his head and found Benny looking at him all soft and thoughtful, one hand extended.

They turned circles on the back porch, over and over. Benny muttered against the hollow of Dean’s jaw, “slow, slow, quick, quick, slow,” teaching him the basic rhythm of the steps. He told him about the 1930s and dancing in clubs, in basements, in South America. He told him his maker didn’t approve, and so he stopped but the movements were still ingrained in him.

Dean watched his face that night. He should have been watching his feet because he kept tripping over them, over Benny’s. He should have been ramped into a furor over Benny’s hips so close to his, Benny’s arm strong against his shoulders. But Dean kept his chin canted just low enough so he could watch as Benny smiled beatifically, like standing on their back porch and dancing to some beat-up record of tango hits was the most relaxed and happy he’s ever been.

Dean didn’t say any of that. Didn’t say anything about Benny’s maker, how he wished he had been the one to kill him. Didn’t ask whether Benny and Andrea tangoed, on the deck of her yacht or on the white sands of private beaches. He didn’t tell Benny that he never considered he might be able to dance, might like it. Didn’t describe the fantasy of walking into some basement dancehall in the thirties to find Benny whirling someone around on the floor, all hips and shoulders.

Instead, he just grinned and told Benny “Bet you looked good in one of those 1930s suits, huh?”

Benny chuckled and pressed in on the next turn, felt his way onto his toes to kiss Dean slow. “You know it, cheri.”

(Later that night, in bed, Dean carded his hand through Benny’s short hair and asked into the quiet, “Did you dance before that? Before you were turned?” And Benny smiled, eyes drifting a little before he came back. Haltingly told Dean about dancing with his wife for the first time, about the early start jazz had in New Orleans with brass bands, about the swoon that Dixieland had to it. About the folky swing that was more popular in his hometown, with fiddle and triangle and accordion. About clapping along in street squares or kicking up hay in barns and the way the upper-class whites turned their nose up at it.

They kissed, soft and sweet, while Dean considered a young Benny. He got closer and closer to sleep and just before dropping off he maybe said something sappy about liking the idea of having Benny as his dance partner.)

After that, they start actually dancing to the album, sometimes. Spontaneous, in the middle of one of the tracks, with Dean scooping behind Benny and rocking until he turns, until they set into that beat that Benny taught him. 

Or, sometimes, instead of just slipping the record into place, Benny will fuss with the cueing lever and slide past _La Cumparsita_ , past _A Media Luz_ , straight to the lilting opening of _Por Una Cabeza_.

It’s one of those nights -- Dean is clearing off the dishes from dinner when Benny disappears into the living room. He’s just about to call out some bitchy comment about abandoning Dean to do the cleanup on his own when he hears those familiar first bars. Benny is in the doorway, then, and they just stand there for a few beats, smiling. Soon enough, Benny holds out his right arm, fingers curved to hold a hand, and raises the left as if laying across a shoulder, leaving the perfect empty space for Dean to fit against him.

Benny likes it when he leads, even if Dean only vaguely knows what he’s doing, so he settles his left hand high on Benny’s back and then sinks his head so their temples can kiss. It’s the song from _True Lies_ and at first Dean couldn’t help but think of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Jamie Lee Curtis and Tia Carrere. Now, though, all he thinks of is Benny’s hips tipping up into his, the way their feet tangle over the patchy linoleum, the catch of Benny’s beard on Dean’s overgrown stubble.

It’s just their kitchen, just dusk, just Benny up against him, so Dean allows himself a little freedom from that easy five-count, swaying a little, shuffling to recover when they almost crash into the table. Benny huffs out a laugh, stumbling in socked feet. Dean smiles broad at the sound and raises their joined hands higher in an exaggerated little swing. Their thighs are set close in the move and Dean can feel the locked, coiled strength in Benny. He’s firm and a literal killing machine and yet here he is, dancing with Dean in the kitchen of the home they’ve made. And hell, Dean has a body count under his belt too and here he is, going to mush in all the places aside from his dick because he’s dancing with Benny in the kitchen of the home they’ve made.

When the piano crashes in on the swell of the song, as usual, Dean finds his throat in his stomach. The sudden intensity of the music gets him, true enough, but so does the way Benny has them shifted inside the space of a second -- Dean’s hand cast over Benny’s shoulder now while Benny presses a cool palm between Dean’s shoulder blades. He usually does this at this point in the song, claims the lead, so Dean more or less expects it but something still shudders through his chest. Maybe it’s the casual, effortless show of strength. Maybe it’s the deftness and skill in the flipping of their roles. Maybe it’s just because Benny is hips-first now, pressing into Dean and urging them forward. Dean has to hunch, fit his face into Benny’s neck for a few phrases so he doesn’t gasp at the landslide of lust. It is, after all, a tango.

Benny rocks and weaves them through the underbelly of the song, shoulders cycling and feet dragging, tossing Dean away and then reeling him back in. Not quite exaggerated enough to be all a joke, but when he dips Dean, they’re both smiling broadly and giggling into it. Dean shoulders himself back upright and then the strings are back at the forefront, the melody settling. Benny keeps the lead. With ease and lighter feet than one might expect, he does a complicated little mince across their kitchen floor. They turn, round and round, so that Dean goes dizzy and a little warm. They’re just offset, now, which means that one of Benny’s thighs is between Dean’s which means _fuck_. And because Benny is leading it means his leg keeps rocking forward, closer, into Dean and Dean is doing his best not to whine, not to rut down but he’s not sure he’s succeeding.

The piano crashes again but Benny keeps them crowded close in the easy, beginner rhythm. Their noses brush. Dean’s eyelashes get tangled in Benny’s. Dean always hates these few bars because the song swaps too quickly from that avalanche of intensity to the sawing strings of the final phrases. It’s not like they’re locking eyes in performance, kicking feet between legs and hopping onto thighs or anything like that but it is, after all, a tango. There’s an inexorable heat to the moves and, well, it doesn’t take much more than being pressed up against Benny for Dean anyway.

“I love this song,” Benny sighs, breath grazing along Dean’s lips in a way that makes his heart skitter. They’re less dancing, now, more swaying. Benny’s hand has drifted from proper tango position down to his waist, to his hip. Dean is trying very hard not to give up, give in, slam Benny against the wall. His dick is screaming for pressure and friction.

“Song’s about betting on a losing horse,” Dean says once he has control of his breath. He loops his hands together behind Benny’s waist, canting his hips in a way that he hopes gets his point across without being too needy.

“It is not,” Benny counters, voice light and amused. Face-to-face like this, they’ve matched foreheads and Dean wants to kiss Benny so bad he might be shaking. “It’s about risking it all for love.”

“It’s about a dude who can’t keep his dick to himself.”

“Didn’t know they wrote a song about you, cheri,” Benny drawls with a pointed thrust.

And Dean’s frustrated whine breaks to a laugh because, okay, he walked into that one. They’ve completely given up the pretense of a dance, now, just wrapped up around one another, standing in the kitchen with the dinner dishes only half cleared away.

“Speaking of,” Dean hums because that thrust was no joke and it made clear that Benny was more than affected by their dance as well. Benny’s hand finds its way over Dean’s ass to cup at the meat of his thigh. He chuckles low in his chest and Dean feels it rattle and vibrate against his own ribcage. _Asi se baila el tango_ ’s accordion has started, piping through the piano and strings in a rhythm that’s half-jaunty, half-sexy. Their eyes meet and Dean sees the spike of arousal reflected back in Benny’s laser blue.

They push and pull and fumble their way into the back of the house, not unlike the tango just before with Benny urging them forward and Dean doing his best to walk backward. Through the long back hall and into their bedroom and by then Dean has lost his tee shirt and Benny’s pants are halfway undone.

It’s like he’s caught in those first swelling bars of the piano over and over, music pushing in hard on either side of his chest and making his mouth fill with want. He kisses Benny fiercely and then slowly and then desperately and Benny just drags him through it all. Benny just cups at the back of Dean’s head gently, so gently, and hitches his arm around Dean’s waist.

Past the first eager tugging, they take their time with the rest of the clothing. They treat it almost like the sex is an after-thought, like they’ll get to getting naked when they get to it. And Dean is fine with that, honestly, because he could spend hours, eons, just kissing Benny. Yes, his dick is achingly hard in his pants but Benny is kissing him and that’s already heaven. Between kisses, Dean unbuttons Benny’s soft, white henley and rolls it over his head. With his teeth around Dean’s lowerlip, Benny fits his hand down the back of his sweatpants, squeezes and brings Dean in close by the hips.

Somehow, Dean ends up on the bed in only his boxer briefs. He has seconds lost to the hazy strobe lighting of lust and when Benny kneels at his side he’s down to just boxers as well. He also has the lube in hand and Dean gives a punched-out sound when he sees that (it might be a whimper but Hell if Dean will admit it.).

Benny leans in to kiss him thoroughly, bracing his hands so that his full weight is leveraged onto Dean, pressing him into the mattress. Against his lips, he murmurs, sing-song, “Su boca de fuego, otra vez quiero besar.”

“Oh my god,” Dean rasps, “shut up.”

Benny laughs low and the heat in Dean’s cock surges to spread warm and steady through his chest. Maybe Benny can tell, because he smiles that smile that stops time and cups at Dean’s cheek with the whole of his palm. And then he gives Dean’s flank a hearty, playful slap and settles himself between his legs.

Like with undressing, the endgoal of sex becomes a distant mirage as Benny works Dean open. That’s the main event, spotlight on, for the while that it takes even as Dean begs through gasps, digs his heels into the bed and twitches his hips in needy little circles. Benny has a stream of encouragement and reassurance going, soft French with a refrain of “I know, cheri, I know.” When Benny tilts his wrist, three fingers deep, and Dean wrenches his head into the pillow so hard he thinks he might get whiplash, Benny just murmurs, “So good for me, huh?”

Dean almost comes from that alone, untouched, and his hands flail, reaching for Benny. He obliges, finally, settling himself over Dean in one long, drawn-out movement. The hard, hot jut of Benny’s cock against his own has Dean whining and he clenches down on nothing. He feels Benny’s mouth on his jawline, on his neck, on his own . And then Benny gets his knees under him and gets himself lined up and leads with his hips until he’s fully hitched into Dean. 

“Fuck, Dean,” he gasps and they’re not quite kissing, more Dean is mewling loosely through Benny’s lips. Benny nips at Dean’s chin and then turns his head and notches his mouth around the pocket where his shoulder meets his neck. There’s a mark, faded slightly, there from the last time they fucked like this and the muscle memory impress makes Dean see spots.

Benny starts moving and Dean is gone.

If their tango is homemade hobby and stumbling, their fucking is anything but. They move like they learned each other's bodies in a myriad of ways before they got into bed -- slaughtering together for a year, tracing hands along bones for injuries, mapping the kitchen as they cooked together. They move in the feedback loop of both of them working diligently for the other’s pleasure and getting as much of it for themselves in doing so.

Dean’s fingers are curled into Benny’s scalp in a way that’s probably too sharp and when he comes he tugs with a jerk, whole body going rigid. Benny heaves an exhale at the pull, gives half a laugh and then tumbles over into his own climax with one last messy thrust.

Benny ends up drifting, his head on Dean’s shoulder and Dean’s hand stroking through his hair. He’s more or less sprawled on Dean, over him, but the press of his body has always been welcome. It’s early, frankly, but fully dark and Dean considers letting himself fall asleep here, with the easy cadence of Benny’s automatic breath rising and falling against his chest.

The dishes stay out and the record eventually plays down to the static pop of the turntable endlessly spinning on a finished record.

**Author's Note:**

> [rebloggable here!](https://sweatercas.tumblr.com/post/621853811503398913/no-mistakes-in-tango-ao3-deanbenny-explicit)


End file.
